We Have Choices, Not Control

I've often heard, and said, the phrase "I wish I had known you when..." But as you sit with this idea, and you consider and evaluate what each party brings to a relationship, perhaps you met when you were supposed to. Would it have made sense for you to have met them ten years prior, five years prior, or even one year prior?

Ten years ago, I was 30 years old, married with one child, and working a full-time job. I had survived multiple suicide attempts, postpartum depression, four months of colic, and six months of battling with doctors to understand why my son had infected eczema. I had two living grandparents, all four of my parents were living, my husband hadn't yet had a stroke. I had watched a college professor battle breast cancer, and she often missed class because of chemotherapy. Asking why someone gets cancer is a waste of time because that is something we don't get an answer to, at least not immediately, maybe not ever. Asking why I had her class that semester wouldn't make sense either. I didn't have to ask. I just had to wait - and waiting is hard. Tom Petty said so.. 😉

Shortly after college, I gained a new friend, one who'd become like a sister. When our friendship was new, I learned she had a cancerous tumor. Not knowing a lot about her specific situation, and even less about cancer, but having watching my professor go through chemotherapy, I knew what to expect. I expected her to be exhausted, maybe so much that getting out of bed wasn't possible. I expected her hair to fall out. I expected to do a lot of checking in to see what she needed, how I could help. But this experience was different. They removed the tumor and she was okay.

Some time had passed and she said the tumor was back. Again, I began to expect these same things, but this time was different too. She wasn't missing work. Her hair didn't appear to be falling out, but she wore a scarf every day to cover it so I really didn't know. I had invested a great deal of time and energy into this friendship and hated doubting her, especially about something so serious, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. She must have sensed it because our time together had increased tension. A few weeks later, she invited me to her sister's house for a cookout. When we arrived, her sister saw the scarf on her head and asked "what's up with your hair?" I knew immediately I had been played. The cancer wasn't back. Her hair wasn't falling out. She wasn't sick. Not this time. She lied.

I hated watching my professor suffer. I hated hearing a friend had a cancer. I hated watching that relationship explode. But going through those things changed me.

***

Five years ago, I was 35, married and had gone from a mom of one to a mom of three, and switched jobs. I was five years older and different. I had experience now. I had survived hard things. I knew more. I was so caught up in my own world of "life isn't going to screw with me again" that I committed an act of betrayal to a friend, one who I'd known since we were kids. And then the universe intervened.

While I was pregnant with my third child, I learned my stepdad had terminal cancer. The doctors told him with treatment, the timeline was 2-5 years. I knew what to expect - being exhausted, hair loss, being available to help. But this time was different still. He had bouts of energy between and during treatments. He built an entire swing set for his grandkids and made sure all of the post-death arrangements were in order. He gave us reassurance and hope that everything was going to be okay when we should have been comforting him.

It was also different because I had children asking me questions I couldn't answer. This was not my first experience with cancer or death, but it was theirs. But I also knew it was okay to be honest about it as much as possible. If I didn't know the answer, that's okay. We could find it together.  My focus had to be on them, not me, and it had been on me for so long.

I hated watching my stepdad suffer and my mom grieve. I hated watching my kids not understand anything going on and not having the answers to give them peace. I hated saying goodbye to my stepdad. But going through those things changed me.

***

One year ago, I was a married mother of three. Three of my four parents were alive and I would soon learn my father had terminal cancer. All of my grandparents had passed and my husband had survived a stroke.

I hated watching my husband go through a stroke and learning to adapt to a new normal. I hated hearing my kids ask why he was at the hospital. I hated hearing my dad had terminal cancer. But going through those things changed me.

***

I have made new friends who I've said to or thought "I wish I had known you when..." But looking back, I now know I would not have been equipped then to be in these relationships. And quite possibly, they weren't either. Everyone has changed. Everyone continues to change.

One of my favorite songs by Faith Hill is "When the Lights Go Down." The first verse is about a bartender who is also an alcoholic. The end of the evening arrives and he's able to get through his shift without succumbing to his addiction. But when no one else is around, that's when the fight begins. The next verse is about a woman who has fame, money, fancy cars, the finest clothing - she's got it all, including a mass of friends. But when the party is over, that mass of friends is gone and only a few remain.

I love this song and its message. The reality is that we all have struggles. Every person is fighting with something, whether we let anyone else know or not. The bartender might be really good at pretending for the customers, and we can pretend we are okay in our own battles. We can accumulate a lot of things - jewelry, money, expensive cars, shoes, whatever - and even have a large entourage. But when it's all said and done, and we are stripped of everything, that's when we need to do a thorough exam of ourselves, our lives.

I know I am not who I used to be. I'd like to think I'm better rather than worse, but growing and becoming someone new doesn't have to be labeled as "good" or "bad." It's just different - and different is okay - and we really cannot control the evolution of ourselves, anyone else, or the world. We can learn from experiences and make decisions as we grow, but cannot stop the growth itself.

We don't get to decide when our path crosses that of another. What we can decide is how we treat and care for each relationship and how we navigate through situations. We won't always do it perfectly or the right way. We are going to mess up and make mistakes. We don't get to decide who we met ten years ago, five years ago, a year ago, or who we will meet in the future. But instead of wishing we would have known them when, maybe it's better to appreciate knowing them now, or whenever they arrive, and embracing the moments wholly as they come because we don't know or have control over how long they will last.

I'm still learning, and the good news is that's okay.

An Obituary and a Bottle of Palmolive

I once heard a comedian say being on the road a lot was tough. He admitted traveling often gave him several opportunities to sample local cuisine, and while he understood why people took advantage of these chances, he rarely did. It wasn't because he didn't want to. It was because it was unfamiliar and he wasn't sure what to expect. He was already surrounded by new places, new faces, new stages, and new audiences, and he didn't need another uncertainty. For this reason, he'd feast on something he knew - a McDonald's Big Mac and large fries. He said he could order a Big Mac from any McDonald's in any state and it always tasted the same. It wasn't that it tasted great, but it was consistent and familiar.

In this time of global uncertainty, I think the longing for something familiar is relatable for many people. Where is the Big Mac? Where are the fries?

I wasn't surprised by my father's death. He was battling stage 4 lung cancer, treatments stopped being effective and he was deteriorating rapidly. But no amount of knowing his death was approaching could have prepared me for the overwhelm of sadness I'd feel. It's been a little over a week and I have cried every single day since then. The tears and sadness are normal after a loss of a loved one, but the grieving process as a whole is not normal right now. We can't spend time with family and friends and share memories. We can't have a service to celebrate the person we loved. We can't do the "normal" things, and all I've been searching for is one piece of familiarity or normalcy. One element of comfort.

I knew what my dad's obituary would say, how it would read, and where it could be found. I knew when it would be published, and I was trying to prepare myself for another flood of tears when I held the paper in my hand. Instead, I felt a sense of peace and a little bit of closure. This moment, this one normal thing - the obituary - that now made the grieving process seem normal.

***

 
My parents divorced when I was very young, around 2 years old, and I never lived with my dad. We visited often and he was always in contact. I have vague memories of him living in a trailer where he captured a photo of me eating pork and beans right out of the can.

I have more vivid memories of him living in Noblesville. The house seemed enormous with its two stories, an attic that could have been another living space, large doorways and high ceilings. I remember him chasing us up the narrow flight of stairs with his eyelids turned inside out. I remember sitting on the floor listening to a cassette of a story and following along in the book before I was able to read. I remember finding an orange in my Christmas stocking and a book under my pillow where I'd left a tooth that had fallen out. I remember his voice after my sister and I would fight and he'd tell one of us to sit on the front porch and the other to sit on the back porch. He never said how long to sit. We had to figure out when we were "ready."

I remember yanking apples and cherries off the trees, picking strawberries from the garden and grapes from the vine. I remember going to the store and choosing the fruit we wanted to snack on for the weekend. I remember being put on compost "patrol." He used that word often for any job and it somehow made it feel more important.

I remember climbing to the top of the large tree in the backyard only to say "I can't get down." He would never come up and get us, but say "come down the same way you went up," and he'd instruct us step by step how to do just that. This also might have been the birth of his phrase "can't means don't want to." We must have said "I can't" a lot because I remember hearing that phrase a lot. He was not a believer in not trying, even when the task at hand seemed difficult.

From that same tree hung two large ropes that held a swing. I remember it being handcrafted, painted green with yellow flowers and our names in white letters. I remember trips to the junkyard where he'd photograph us in beat up cars because it was funny, and assembling working bicycles from scraps of broken ones. I remember walking into his art room where it impossible to not inhale the fumes from the paint and chemicals.

I remember standing in the alley playing catch and being told to release the ball when your hand is in front of you and not when it's next to your head. I remember numerous times feeling the sting in my glove after my dad threw the ball, and feeling a small sense of accomplishment the first time he said "ow" when I delivered a hard ball to him.

I remember frequent camping trips where we learned how to pitch a tent, bait a fishing hook and start a fire. I remember drinking milk and juice from thermoses, and eating egg sandwiches that had just turned soggy after being stored in a bread bag. I remember asking at every visit for him to make fried macaroni.

After Noblesville, he moved to Rome, GA, and this was the first time we got to fly on an airplane. We were "assigned" to a flight attendant who kept watch over us the entire time, and we even got to visit the cockpit. I remember going roller skating and bowling with the neighbor kids who said "y'all" a lot. I remember walking to the video store and returning every time to hear my dad say "we saw that already and didn't like it." The first one I remember getting no objection was Ferris Bueller's Day Off. I remember riding in the car with the windows down and singing at the top of our lungs to The Beach Boys.

He moved again to Cary, NC, and I remember at least three houses down there. My dad moved around a lot and I never lived with him. The houses changed but a lot of things stayed the same. He was always wearing a hat. He always loved baseball. Everyone was impressed by his artwork. He expanded my love of music and appreciation for the small beautiful things around us. He taught me it's okay to be silly and have fun no matter what anyone else thinks. And one thing I remember, no matter where he lived, was the bottle of Palmolive that sat on the counter. I don't recall what age I was when I learned the familiar scent was the soap and not him, but I know it was always there and I'd know that smell anywhere.

I don't know when I'll stop being sad, and maybe I never will be. But as long as I've got a bottle of Palmolive, I know I'll be okay.

I'm Always Wearing a Life Jacket

I don't know a lot about boats but one thing I know is, big or small, everyone aboard must have a life jacket available. Why? So you don't drown. Of course, it only works if you're wearing it but it's always available.

A couple weeks ago during a conversation with a friend, he asked me who I trusted and my answer was "no one." While that's not entirely true, it's also not completely false. I then paralleled my approach to trust in relationships to being on a boat. There's always the possibility of being pulled under. But if you've got a life jacket, you're able to give yourself some security.

I've been let down, abandoned and betrayed too many times and I don't fully trust anyone. That's probably unfair to the handful who've never given me a reason to not trust them, but the truth is I'm always waiting to be let down. I go as far as tell some people they can remove themselves from my life at any time and I'll understand. A professional might say this isn't a healthy approach to relationships, but it's the truth.

I know I've let down my share of people as well, and maybe that's why I'm always waiting for it to happen to me again. I can't fully trust myself to not do the one thing I'm asking everyone else to not do. I have done a lot of work to mend those broken relationships but even with the best of efforts, they're not what they once were. I have looked back at the mistakes I made in those situations and have done my best going forward to avoid making them again. Obviously that doesn't undo the damage I caused, but we can't go back and change the times we've hurt or been hurt. What we can do is learn from them, no matter which side of the equation we're on, and continuously strive to do better.

There are a lot of people in my life who know some things about me and some who know a lot. Then there's a third group, the ones I trust and they know the most. But even these few people don't know everything. I don't let anyone know me completely. I'm always wearing a life jacket.

No*

Nearly two years ago, I wrote my very first book review for a thriller novel called Triple Cross Killer by Rosemarie Aquilina. Since then I've done 19 others. A question I am frequently asked is if I'm being paid to do them. The response I want to give is "does it matter" or "it's none of your business." Instead I respond with a smile and say no because I'm really being asked if I'm being given money. A more honest answer is no* but I'm not aware of a speaking equivalent of an asterisk. If you know what it is, tell me!

I would add the asterisk because if you dive further into the meaning of payment, you'll see it encompasses more than just cash. You already know this. Think of how many times you've said or heard "it's the thought that counts" when you can't purchase a tangible gift for someone and instead make a phone call or send a note. The top three meanings of payment, according to dictionary.com, are (1) something that is paid; an amount paid; compensation; recompense; (2) the act of paying; (3) reward or punishment; requital. The payment I'm being asked about is a 1 or 2 - and the answer is no. The payment I'm actually getting, the asterisk, is a 3 (minus the punishment part). The payment I'm given is invaluable and no amount of money in the world could replace it.          

SIDEBAR- look up the word 'fly' - it has over 30 meanings!!

I've been introduced to dozens of fantastic books, genres ranging from romance and poetry to thriller, suspense and fantasy. Some of these are books I may have never picked up because they aren't something that would normally interest me. For some, I'm given a link to download the book at no monetary cost in exchange for my HONEST opinion about it - the review. Releasing your book, or any piece of art, is an incredibly vulnerable thing to do as it offers up a piece of yourself to the consumer. Giving it away AND asking for someone's opinion about it - that's next level!

What does this exchange do? It helps authors who often do their own marketing get greater exposure for their product and it gives me the opportunity to read and write, both of which I love to do. The review, whether mine or someone else's, also gives other readers a peek into the book beyond the author's synopsis. Anyone can read the summary to learn what a book is about, but knowing how someone responded to it can be the difference between someone choosing to purchase it or not.

Reading and reviewing also helps me with my own writing journey. I learn as much, or more, by reading than by writing. While there aren't laws or rules that dictate how to write a book, there are things that work and things that don't. Reading books, especially those that align with the kind of books I'd like to write, gives me a greater understanding of this. Writing courses and workshops are important and helpful but don't teach everything.

Beyond entertainment or writing tips, I've found inspiration in places I didn't expect to. Inspiration for both creative and personal development. Katherine Hastings is a romance author whose books I've come to love - I also adore her! After releasing The Big One in 2019, she released two novels in her Door Peninsula Passions series. In the first one, The Other Half, the main character Cassandra is in tears and thinks back to what her father used to tell her - "Cry your tears, but then remember, tears solve nothing. Instead of crying over your situation, give me three ways you can fix it."

As a person who cries a lot, this really resonated with me. It is okay to cry!! It is therapeutic to cry!! But what does it solve? NOTHING. If all you're doing is crying, nothing is changing, which means nothing is getting better. I've probably been told this or something similar before reading it in a romance novel but this was the first time it stuck with me. Do I sit down after every good cry and make a physical list of things I can do to change the situation? No. But I do spend time meditating over the situation and evaluating my options.

Yes, it takes time to read a book and write a review. And the reviews aren't always easy to write. Sharing your opinion should be easy - write what you think. I could simply write "I like or dislike this book because..." and then give a list of reasons. I don't do this though. I take a more journalistic approach and try to give it a personal angle. I want authors to know what the book means to me, not just why I like or dislike it. The amount of time I spend reading and writing a review pales in comparison to the amount of time it takes to write a book. I had no idea! And if an author is willing to share their book with me, it deserves time and attention. THEY deserve for it to be handled with care.

The circle of people that's developed around me is the greatest reward of all. I've learned no one writes alone and I've gained a network of fabulous people who welcome any question anytime, no matter how silly it may seem. Sometimes they even ask me for help, which is even more surprising. The only reason I ever wrote the first review is because I was asked to. I wasn't expecting anything in return, least of all money. I had no idea I would make any friends.

So if you're wondering if I get paid for doing reviews, the answer is no*.







The quote from The Other Half is being used with the author's permission.

You are Art

My favorite actress is Sandra Bullock and of all her movies, 28 Days is my favorite! If you haven't seen it, it's about a journalist named Gwen who is an alcoholic. After a series of drunken mistakes, she is court ordered to a 28-day stay in rehab. Is it her best movie? Probably not, and I know it isn't her funniest. But it's my favorite because of how relatable it is for me.

I am not an alcoholic but I have been in rehab, oddly enough around the same time the movie was released in 2000. My treatment was mostly outpatient but after a suicide attempt between morning sessions at therapy, one that stopped my heart and landed me in the hospital, I was admitted to inpatient treatment.

While I appreciate irony, attempting suicide while in rehab for previously attempting suicide is one of the worst examples you can find. If you've seen the movie, you'll know Gwen's roommate Andrea attempted suicide more than once while they were there. Andrea was the youngest patient in the facility at the time and the same was true for me. Everyone "adopted" me as their daughter or little sister. She also watched soap operas - GUILTY!

When I overdosed and collapsed, the young woman who found me was another patient - the one whose drugs I combined with my own. She was on crutches at the time because of a broken leg. When Andrea is found passed out from an overdose, Gwen is wearing a boot on her leg because she jumped out the window to fetch the pills she'd previously dumped.

All of this is not a great endorsement for the movie - or rehab - but there is something beautiful about it. In the movie, each person is given a sign to wear that says "confront me if...." followed by whatever they need to resolve. Gwen is to be confronted if she doesn't ask for help. When someone completes their stay, they're given a send-off that includes everyone singing "Lean On Me." Andrea thinks this is ridiculous, and when it's her time to leave, Gwen has something special planned for her. She rallies a group of patients to act out a soap opera scene instead of the traditional sing-off! Then they each give her a sign that has something inspirational written on it. The sign Gwen makes says "Don't ever be someone's slogan because you are poetry." This is one of my favorite quotes of all time and a great reminder that someone, somewhere, sees beauty in us even if we can't see it ourselves.

I posted a picture recently of a temporary workspace I set up in my garage for a virtual writing workshop. Someone astutely observed that we have wall hangings in our garage. I never thought much about it, and anything in there is something we have no place for inside but still want to keep.

On one wall, we have calendars my dad drew when he worked for Bob and Tom at Q95 Indianapolis decades ago, all or mostly from the '80s. On another wall we have an Indiana Pacers flag, an Indianapolis Colts picture, and something my mother-in-law knitted or crocheted or something (I really don't know). The last thing is a stained glass piece my dad put together. I think it's older than me and it's heavy and very fragile. Some of the pieces are cracked and they shift a bit if you move it. It's not hanging inside because I don't have a good window on the east or west side of my house to catch good sunlight.

If you dissect a stained glass window, you'll find pieces of broken glass, rough and bumpy around the edges, that on their own aren't much to look at. If you found one single piece of glass lying on the ground, you might even throw it away. But when you pick up the broken pieces and put them together, something beautiful is created.

Set off-center and to the right is a mirror. It kind of looks like a mitten. Like the rest of the pieces, it is broken and rough around the edges. This is the only part you can't see through. The part that makes you look back at yourself. The part of a beautiful mosaic where you are the final piece.

I have a difficult time every single day wondering where I fit into this world. I am able to find beauty and goodness and worth in everyone I'm surrounded by - no matter how broken they are, and all of us are. But if we take a minute to see how all of our broken pieces fit together, we might be able to find something beautiful.

Remember - to someone, you are poetry or the final piece of a mosaic. YOU ARE ART!

Capable

Something I have struggled with for most of my life is believing in myself. I don't take advantage of opportunities offered to me or step outside of my comfort zone unless it's necessary because I am constantly convinced I'm going to fail. 

 

The first time I wrote a book review, I spent the better part of a day worrying about it. When I sent what I'd written to the author, her response was "you should do this for a living." I was blown away by the compliment, and maybe one day I'll do just that. But even with such high praise, I wasn't confident I could do it. The five or six subsequent reviews I wrote I asked her to read before I published them. It took this many times of being told I could do it before I believed I could do it. I've made it to a place where I don't ask her to review them anymore.

 

The last couple of years I've been trying to put more focus on being kinder to myself because I am surrounded by people who DO believe in me. They would never say the things to me that I say to myself. And I'd never say those things to them. I've been trying to do things for myself that inspire me and simply bring me joy, such as writing. When I find myself in situations that are new, whether personal or professional, I seek the same kind of reassurance that I did when I started writing book reviews. 

 

I have found that if I give myself a little bit of grace and kindness, I am very capable of doing things. It often just takes a moment to pause, breathe and quiet the noise. The noise that I've created. The noise that is just that - noise. If I can get through that, I can hear the words others say to me, and listening to those words instead of the ones I tell myself gives me the kick in the ass to go try something. I love words and think they hold a great power, whether said internally, read or heard from someone else.

My phone background is a screenshot of kind words from a friend that I can read anytime. Maybe that sounds ridiculous but it's one small thing I can turn to - and see many times daily - when I need a little reassurance. To complement my background, I recently purchased a bracelet from MyIntent.org. These are not mass produced and you can get any word - YES ANY WORD - you choose pounded into the charm. I learned about this company months ago from a life coach and wanted one immediately, but I didn't want to choose just ANY word. I wanted a word that was meaningful to me but not one that was too easy. I was looking for a word that would be challenging but not intimidating. And with the bazillions of words there are, it seemed daunting to find ONE. 

 

After some contemplation, I chose the word CAPABLE. This is a word that is a reminder of a lot of things - that I can succeed, that I need to be kind to myself and try, that I am surrounded by other people who believe in me. But most of all, it reminds me that I AM CAPABLE. And so are you!!

Karaoke and Writing

While dancing around in my kitchen and singing to Pandora, I had an epiphany about how to best describe my feelings about where I am as a writer. It happened somewhere between Debbie Gibson's Out of the Blue and Cupid's Cupid Shuffle.

The first memory I have of doing karaoke in public is when I was 17. It was 1996 and I drove my car across the city to a mall to see my crush - a radio DJ named Rob Blair. He was doing a live broadcast/fundraiser for Jerry's Kids to help the Muscular Dystrophy Association. Part of the event was karaoke, and Rob and I sang When I Fall in Love by Celine Dion and Clive Griffin. I don't know why we chose that. Rob was not in love with me and what I felt for him was nothing more than infatuation. He knew I was fond of him though and he kind of enjoyed it. But, that's the song we picked and it was awful and now I have a nice memory!

I'm 40 now and can't think of a year since then I haven't done karaoke. For 23 years, I've gone out more times than I can count with different groups of friends and sang my heart out. I have a few go-to songs that I perform - Honey, I'm Home by Shania Twain, I'm Movin' On by Rascal Flatts, And Then He Kissed Me by the Crystals. When I have my best friends with me, we do Build Me Up Buttercup by The Foundations. I've done Sir Mix-a-Lot, Madonna and Divinyls. I haven't done Celine Dion since I was 17 and that's better for everyone.

While I may have learned a few karaoke "rules," one thing I haven't done is gotten much better at it. I cannot carry a tune and I know it. I continue to do it because I love it. Music is one of my most favorite things in the world, and karaoke is a time to get out and have a few laughs with friends. I'm not the worst singer sometimes, but I know I'll never be the best. It's easy to sit in a chair and sing along with your friends. I know the lyrics to the song I choose. I know the melody. And I've usually got some liquid courage in me. But when I grab the microphone and the focus is on me, my level of confidence takes a dive.

My history as a writer goes back even further than 1996 but, for me, the two are similar. The first piece of writing I remember sharing with anyone was very simple - demographic information. It was the late '80s. I sat in my bedroom and, in my best penmanship, wrote my name, address and phone number. I wrote my mom's name, my dad's name and my sister's name. That doesn't sound like something to be remembered, and sounds even less like something anyone would want to read. But the next part was about a man who soon after became my stepdad. I wasn't sure at an age of less than 10 what to call a man we lived with that wasn't yet married to my mom. I knew he wasn't my dad but I thought the terms boyfriend and girlfriend were reserved for teenagers :)

I pondered and wrote, finishing the piece, and ran into their bedroom to show them. They read aloud softly and quickly and stopped when they reached the bottom of the page. They looked up at me and then continued to read slowly "My doo doo butt's name is Dennis Burke." I don't know why I wrote that, and don't remember knowing then why I wrote it. We all got a good laugh out of it and a nice memory, and I think my stepdad kept it until he died.

I remember, in the moment, being so proud of what I'd written and being able to share it. I'm happy to say I've written more interesting things (I think) since the late '80s. In 5th grade, I was in a small group of kids of divorced parents and wrote a short story. It was called The New Kid on the Block - no, it wasn't about boy bands. It was about a boy who recently moved away with his mother and he was struggling to find friends in his new neighborhood and school. I think it was 6 or 8 pages long. I don't have it anymore but know that I wrote a sequel too!

In 6th grade, I wrote a paper about getting stuck in a highchair in a pizza joint after a trip to a haunted house. My teacher wrote 'amateur' across the top and I still have no idea how it was meant to be interpreted. I wrote poetry throughout middle and high school, and I have a stack that's poorly written and mostly dark. I started keeping a journal in college and took an etymology class because I love words. Several years ago, I wrote a children's book called Colors of the World that I self-published. I sold a few dozen copies, mostly to family, and I have a copy of it on my children's bookshelf. The story is mediocre at best and the art is just plain awful.

In 2018, I wrote my first book review, and last year, I finished the first draft of a novel. Looking back over my writing timeline, I've certainly come a long way from demographic information and "doo doo butt." I don't doubt my ability to write - that's the part I know I can do. I am reasonably intelligent. I can spell well and I've always gotten an A in grammar. But it's the "grab the microphone" moment and my confidence is tanking. I need to do more than write if I want to become an author. I need to tell a story, and that's the part I can't do.

My novel, for now, is put on hold and while I hope to one day pick it back up and get it published, I don't know that I ever will. Maybe I'm not meant to be an author any more than I'm meant to be a singer. I'm trying but struggling to accept that fact, and maybe it isn't true. But instead of focusing on the "what if I never..." part of it, I'm going to put my energy into the parts of writing I know I can do. Simply because, just like music, I enjoy it and I'm not ready for the journey to end.